"You never used to be this way, Rehema," Ali said, his voice laced with irritation as he shoved his plate aside. "It's like you've forgotten how to take care of a home."
Rehema froze mid-step, the biting comment slicing through her. She turned slowly, clutching the dish towel in her hand.
"What did you just say?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Ali leaned back in his chair, his expression cold. "You heard me. You're always complaining about being tired, but look at this house. The sink is full of dishes, and the laundry hasn't been done in days. What exactly are you doing all day?"
Rehema blinked at him, trying to process the accusation. "Ali, I'm eight months pregnant. I'm doing the best I can—"
"And it's not enough!" Ali interrupted, slamming his hand on the table.
Silence filled the room, broken only by the soft hum of the fridge. Rehema stared at him, her heart pounding.
"Not enough?" she repeated, her voice a whisper. "I'm carrying your child, Ali. Our child. I'm exhausted, in pain, and trying to hold everything together while you come home late every night or don't come home at all. And now you're telling me I'm not enough?"
Ali rolled his eyes. "Don't turn this into a pity party. My mother had four kids and never complained once. She worked harder than you ever have."
Rehema's grip tightened on the dish towel. "Your mother didn't have to do it alone, Ali. She had help—she sisters who helped take care of you and your siblings and the house."
Ali stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Don't you dare talk about my mother like that. She was ten times the woman you'll ever be."
Rehema's chest constricted, the words cutting deeper than she thought possible. She swallowed hard, refusing to let him see her cry.
"If that's how you feel," she said quietly, "then why did you marry me?"
Ali shook his head, grabbing his phone from the table. "I'm not having this conversation with you."
"Of course you're not," Rehema said bitterly. "Because that's what you always do, isn't it? You run. You avoid. You never take responsibility for anything."
Ali turned back to her, his face dark with anger. "You think I don't take responsibility? I'm the one paying the bills. I'm the one keeping this family afloat while you sit here feeling sorry for yourself."
Rehema laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "Paying the bills? You mean the same bills you complain about every chance you get? The same bills you've used to justify neglecting me, your wife?"
Ali's jaw tightened. "I don't have to listen to this."
"No, you don't," Rehema said, her voice rising. "You never do. But let me tell you something, Ali. One day, you're going to wake up and realize what you've lost. And by then, it'll be too late."
He stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before turning and walking out of the house. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Rehema alone in the echoing silence.
---
The next morning, the house was eerily quiet when Rehema woke up. Ali hadn't come home, and she wasn't sure if she was relieved or angry.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a message from her aunt.
Aunt Laila: Good morning, my dear. How are you feeling today?
Rehema sighed, typing back a quick response. I've been better. Can I come over later?
Her aunt's reply was almost immediate. Of course. I'll have tea ready.
---
At Aunt Laila's House
"I don't know how much more I can take, Auntie," Rehema confessed, her voice breaking. "He doesn't respect me, doesn't value me… I feel like I'm losing myself."
Her aunt reached across the table, taking Rehema's hands in hers. "Rehema, listen to me. You are stronger than this. I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you have the power to rebuild yourself. You don't need Ali to define your worth."
Rehema shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "But I love him. I don't know how to stop."
"You don't have to stop loving him," her aunt said gently. "But you do need to start loving yourself more. That's the only way you'll survive this."
---
That evening, when Ali finally returned home, it was past midnight. Rehema was sitting on the couch, her arms crossed.
"Where have you been?" she asked, her tone calm but firm.
"Out," he replied curtly, kicking off his shoes.
"Out where?"
Ali looked at her, clearly annoyed. "I don't have to explain myself to you."
"Yes, you do," Rehema said, standing. "Because I'm your wife. And if you can't respect me enough to tell me the truth, then what are we even doing here, Ali?"
Ali scoffed. "You're overreacting, as usual. I needed some space, so I went out. End of story."
"Space?" Rehema repeated, her voice rising. "You've had all the space in the world, Ali. What you haven't had is accountability."
"Don't start with me, Rehema," he warned, his tone icy.
"Or what?" she challenged. "You'll leave again? Fine. Go. But don't expect me to be here waiting when you come back."
Ali stared at her, his jaw clenched. For a moment, it looked like he might say something, but instead, he turned and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
Rehema sank back onto the couch, her chest heaving with a mix of anger and despair.
---
"Love isn't about losing yourself in someone else. It's about finding the strength to stand tall, even when they try to pull you down."